


Plans and Pitfalls

by ThatSassyCaptain



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Action/Adventure, Case Fic, Gen, Humor, My First Work in This Fandom, Mystery, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 23:58:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17131145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatSassyCaptain/pseuds/ThatSassyCaptain
Summary: "I had the sudden realization- as one should have as few times in their life as possible- that if the man before me had his way I would be dead before sunrise."Holmes takes a 'case' that he suspects is nothing. But where there's smoke, there's fire.Originally posted on FFN, and a very light-hearted take on a case where Holmes is looking for trouble in all the wrong places.





	Plans and Pitfalls

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively: Wherein Sherlock Holmes is Too Smart For His Own Good and Too Stupid For Everyone Else's
> 
> Howdy howdy readers of all ages. This is my first foray into Holmes Proper, and I'd like to acknowledge the shortcomings too numerous to list exhaustively, but can be summed up in:
> 
> -moderately spell-checked  
> -no beta  
> -no... no 'brit-picking'? is... that's a thing right? anyway i didn't do it
> 
> tl;dr: here we go it's probably not perfect

Let it not be said that I have no literary skill, or that I lack the confidence to attempt a foray into the published realm oft more frequented by my biographer. Many a time he has tried to convince me to pen a memoir of my own. The whim has seldom presented itself when I have the time or the subject around which to do so. I should also state that I lay no claim to the powers of romanticism that generate so many popular narratives. Although, I have been encouraged by my armchair editor to add certain thoughts and observations I had during the case. Nothing florid or dramatic, no- this is what I endeavor to make a clear and detailed account of what I imagine to be one of the strangest cases of my career. 

Do not let the edits of ‘added literary value’ from said “editor” distract from the facts. I am of the firm belief that one does not need to falsify impressions or inject action for the sake of drama. The reader should know (and I do dread the phrase ‘dear reader’ may appear due to some insistence) that much of Scotland Yard does not share my opinion and has in fact wagered against my success. But, this case of a singular criminal psychology will prove me right. For honor, scientific method, and a ‘friendly’ wager I write.

The primary reason I chose this case and not the many others in my files is that Watson bore witness to very little of what transpired. Were our roles reversed, I have no doubt his account would have made excellent material for his publisher. But as I said Watson was present for very little of the affair. Ironic, I suppose the literary term would be, for the very heart of the matter revolved around  _ him _ . 

One must begin with the beginning in all things. I had no bearing of its importance at the time, but this strange affair began with my Watson’s slow tread upon our stair one unremarkable evening. I could deduce from his pace that his house call had gone badly. War wound or no, he was rarely so sluggish on the way up to our rooms unless there were extenuating circumstances. The fact that it was not raining and that he had just returned from his rounds told me it was a professional matter. A patient. I didn’t not recall a sick child in his rounds- those grieved him so- therefore it must be a death. A death just occurred or one imminent. 

Any reader of Watson’s stories will know I detest great shows of emotion. It is simply not in my nature to wear my heart upon my sleeve. And yet my closest companion is much the opposite. I have said he is no cool hand at deception, for he wears his thoughts so plainly upon his face that they are nearly impossible to miss. Even in his footsteps I could deduce much. As he reached the landing, I braced myself. 

Watson leaned upon the knob as the door opened, a clear sign of his exhaustion. I gathered it was a lengthy visit by the state of the creases in his jacket, and in less than ideal conditions by the looks of his collar and trouser cuffs. Yet the overall crispness of his appearance led me to believe this was not an old patient.  _ Curses _ , a failure in the client’s early days would put Watson in the most somber of moods. 

I hurried to clear my newspapers and the last of a sandwich off the settee so he could relax. Usually, Watson wishes me to distract him with a case or some tidbit of morbid information I had turned up in the day’s work. But, I was never sure when I had crossed the line with black humor until it was too late. I would have to tread carefully.

“Good evening, my dear fellow! Come have a seat. I have just read the most fascinating monograph on some corvids’ ability to recognize faces.”

Watson smiled at me as one would to humor a small child. “Not tonight, Holmes. I fear I shall fall asleep on my feet if I do not reach my bed soon. Be sure to tell me of your corvids tomorrow, if they have still captured your interest.”

I was not pleased to hear the pronouncement. Perhaps another angle. “Mrs. Hudson brought up tea not twenty minutes past- if you should like to rest a moment, or discuss what troubles you. I’m so very sorry for your patient, Watson.”

His face fell slightly at my deduction, but it was no fatal blow to his composure. Either he had guessed I would come to the truth or simply grew used to my ability to read the situation. As such, Watson merely sighed. 

“A brother of another patient of mine. The poor man fell ill quite suddenly and I was called. I fear it was his heart. His passing was so sudden that the police may look into it, but the man had no enemies as far as I know. And-” He added hastily, “-it’s not a matter for you, Holmes, I expect. The patient was some forty-three years old. Young for heart troubles, but not suspiciously so.”

“Still, I am sorry for it.” Said I. “I expect it to be the kind of disappointment felt when I cannot prevent a murderer from striking again.”

That brought a slight grin to his lips. Not a crushing blow, then. Watson was made of sterner stuff than most. I had no fear he would be back to his old self shortly. 

“It is probably much like that, Holmes. Though unlike you, I do not possess the stamina to stay up into the night pondering the  _ modus operandi _ of heart failures. Perhaps a clever surgeon will make progress one of these days and we can be rid of such cases from then on.”

“I should hope so, Watson! If one could prevent a heart from failing, cases of poisoning would be considerably easier to identify.”

He laughed outright at this as he bid me goodnight and took the steps to his room. Watson was much more agreeable in high spirits. While it did occur to me that I might look into this death to settle his mind more on the matter, I decided it was quite unlikely that this was more than a simple case of heart failure. I nearly scoffed at the idea- perhaps Watson’s romantic sentiments were permeating my thought processes. Not every death was a murder! It should be a sorry world indeed where one could only be expected to die by another’s hand. 

As I was between cases, my thoughts centered much more in the realm of newspaper articles and the agony columns for a potential case. Still, there were no problems of interest on my plate. Perhaps it would not hurt to take on a less than intriguing crime… 

If not for Watson’s sake, then perhaps for the brother’s. I have seen cases in the past where murders were a blind for altogether different crimes, or where one death was used to throw suspicion from another. This could very well be an ordinary death, but it could also be something more sinister. I doubted that someone was aiming to make the brother disappear with a sudden onset of ‘hereditary heart problems’, but it would not hurt to check. Something of note could come of this after all!

The next morning, after Watson had left to tend his early patients, I made myself presentable for a late one. It was not hard to identify the dead man (with the obituary in the paper for all the world to see) nor was it difficult to find where he had once resided. The house was in one of the more modern neighborhoods with an unfitting name. ‘The Laurels’, read the sign.  _ What Laurels _ , I found myself asking. While I accuse Watson of undue romanticism, the level employed by marketers in this day and age is truly astounding. 

It was among these laurel-less Laurels that I found number 106. The home of Mister Andrew Remming, his wife and- until yesterday- his brother William, was modest but comfortable. The overgrown flower pots visible through the front window implied aging residents with an infrequent maid service if they had one at all. While three-and-forty is hardly ancient, I had no way of knowing if the late William was elder or younger with the data at my disposal. Make theories to suit facts, never the other way around!

I alighted the wooden steps to the porch and rang the bell. Hopefully, someone was home to answer the door. I doubted that funeral arrangements had been made yet, unless they had seen this event coming. By Watson’s great disappointment, I could assume they had not. He was not usually so despondent over a patient who had not been expected to survive. I will briefly interject to defend Watson- he does not care unequally for his patients. I would rather chalk it up to human nature. It is far easier to make a man truly morose when his hopes have first been raised very high. With low expectations one has much less a drop. One is rarely so depressed if an ancient mare breaks a leg.

The door opened. Admittedly, I felt a great deal of satisfaction to find a middle-aged woman-  _ married for some time, lived in the house a while, no pets, grown children- _ standing before me. I was right! It was no great leap in logic to determine the state of the household. 

“Mrs. Remming.” I removed my hat as I bowed. It would hardly do to make a bad impression on Watson’s clients. He would surely make our rooms miserable for a time if they ever spoke of me. “My sincerest condolences for your husband’s brother.”

She nodded politely. “Thanks you, sir.” Mrs. Remming made to move and invite me in, but I quickly waved my hand.

“Do not trouble yourself, Madam, I beg. I do not wish to disturb you or your husband more than is absolutely necessary.” I hesitated only a moment, for this next statement would not have me in Watson’s good graces should this conversation reach his ears. But, due diligence was  _ due. _

“I am a colleague of Doctor Watson’s and I wish to ask of you only two questions, which might help to rule out hereditary heart problems and save you and your husband some worry.”

Mrs. Remming’s somber, closed attitude instantly changed. Her wary demeanor disappeared, and her eyes sparked with some eagerness to hear what I had to say. As I had deduced, the risk of heart troubles for Mister Andrew worried her as much as the fate of Mr. William exhausted her. 

“Of course, sir. Ask what you like and I shall try to answer to your satisfaction.”

“Excellent,” said I. I had no more wish to linger on the porch than she did. Interviewing witnesses on a case that may not even  _ be _ a case was tedious in the extreme. “Firstly, was the onset of symptoms sudden, or gradual? To clarify: did the late Mr. Remming seem more lethargic, out of breath, pained, or sickly just before the fatal affliction, or for a long time previous?”

She hardly seemed to think about it. I daresay her answer provided enough explanation. “It was very sudden.” She said. “It was only a day or two from the beginnings- all of the things you mentioned, sir- until his passing.”

I nodded. Poor Watson. While heart attacks often struck suddenly and without premonition of any kind, I was looking for clues of foul play. Her statement would not rule out a perfectly natural death. But, I had had committed myself to a thorough investigation. It may have been a testament to my boredom at the time, but I digress. I had the scent of the case and I would not abandon it lightly!

“Only one more question, Mrs. Remming.” I reiterated before forging on. “Did the late Mr. Remming change anything in his routine shortly before his death? Did he change his diet, patterns of exercise, or place of employment?”

This question gave her only slightly more pause. I watched as she tried to recall the events of the last few days. While William Remming’s death had obviously taken a toll on his sister-in-law, she was remarkably level-headed and coherent in regards to my line of questions.

“I don’t believe so, sir. No, he had been working as an editor for some ten years and almost always walked to and from his office. He went to dinner with an old school friend two nights ago, but not anywhere unusual. They dined at his club, if I recall correctly, but I am afraid he did not say what he ate. It certainly could have been unusual. William was not one to shy away from new experiences.”

Indeed, and there at his club, it seemed, was the only out of place link in the chain. More accurately, it was the only occurrence of note in the lady’s mind. If some harm had been done to him by an enemy, that would be the best chance. I doubted the other Remmings would be alive to question if the food had been tampered with at home.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Remming.” I said, bowing again. “You have been a great help to me. I have the utmost confidence that Doctor Watson will be able to determine the danger- if any exists- to your husband.” I would not have, of course, told him if there turned out to be nothing to this case. He was a thorough man in his practise, and would no doubt monitor Andrew Remming’s heart closely over the coming weeks regardless. 

Of course, this inquiry could have come to naught. I was preoccupied with nothing else and so determined to see it through in any event. I acquired the name of the late Mr. Remming’s club before bidding the lady good morning. ‘Mattermann’s’ was not an establishment I was greatly familiar with, but it would only take a knowledgeable cabbie to provide me everything I needed to know.

And such was my luck when the first hansom I flagged declared we could arrive in ten minutes. If William Remming walked to his club as well as to his office, it stood to reason this was the place I sought. 

I should confess that at this point in my ‘investigation’, I was doing little more than having a merry scavenger hunt through the city. I had not dismissed the idea that there was some criminal player involved, but I was not wholly convinced either. It was merely an outing to rid myself of boredom. I say this in the hopes that the reader will forgive the careless method with which I engaged the next bit of inquiry. 

Mattermann’s was almost utterly uninteresting, save for the hideous crest with which they made their mark. The design centered around a grotesque creature with the head of a lion, curling ram’s horns, and three wings, of all things. In a last-ditch bid at ‘tastefulness’ a vaguely celtic weave had been etched in a circular border around the monstrosity. I wished unemployment on whichever starving artist had rendered the pitiful thing.

Ugly as their furnishings were, the staff at Mattermann’s was quite agreeable. I had dismounted the hansom with an idea in mind and rushed right up to the doorman. Feigning windedness, I began my little charade. 

“Excuse me…” I gasped. “I’m afraid this is… terribly important. I’m friends of the Remming’s and- dear old Bill’s scarf… By jove, the man loved it- a gift from his mother- and Andy’s in pieces over the funeral. Did he leave it here the other night? Can’t seem to turn it up anywhere.”

The doorman obviously knew of William Remming’s death- I’m sure word traveled quickly enough among staff and fellows with the obituary printed- and seemed sympathetic to my cause. The scarf was a good choice, as it was not valuable and could conceal no valuables in case I was some opportunistic stranger wishing to collect on a dead man’s missing watch or wallet. No, a hand-knit article from his dear departed mother would warrant a search without suspicion. 

I was monitored closely in the coat room as I ‘searched’. This deception was frightfully easy, as I had no intention of finding anything. After a quick glance and the shuffling of a few hats, I returned to the doorman shaking my head.

“It’s no good, he’s not left it here. Oh!” I raised my hand to my forehead dramatically. There was  no need for such theatrics, but the fellow was much likely to ask questions when this persona of mine did enough talking and gesticulating for two. “His old mate from school! Oh, the chap was to visit this week! Perhaps- yes, I do recall Bill mentioning they’d got together to catch up. He might have it! He’s… Good Old-... what’s-his-face…”

The doorman was almost eager to be rid of me, I supposed. “Carter, sir. A Mr. Clay Carter.”

“Clay!” I clapped my hands together animatedly. “The old devil! I’m sure he’s got it if he hasn’t heard the news. Oh- am I so unlucky that he didn’t leave you good chaps an address?”

Clay Carter did not, in fact, leave an address, but I hastily bid the poor man good day ‘so I could go track the old rogue down myself!’ At worst, he would remember me as the obnoxious man who wished to tear apart the coat room. At best, he would forget me altogether. 

I daresay it had been a great deal of fun playacting the morning away. As it still did not seem a matter of serious inquiry, I returned to Baker Street to take my lunch and read the paper I had discarded in favor of this little adventure. I could accept deaths of happenstance for today. Perhaps tomorrow would lead me on a distracting hunt through the city for this Clay Carter. Such was my carefree attitude that I did not notice the next act in the affair until it was practically on top of me. 

Nothing occurred in the way of potential work for the rest of that evening. Watson had not yet returned, and I expected him to be back again within the next few hours. I’ll spare the reader a description of my boredom after turning up nary a missing bracelet in the paper ads. Suffice to say it was enough to cause me some irritation.  _ A blessing upon the man, _ I thought,  _ who can bring me a problem of any interest at all. _

How soon I would come to regret it. In the midst of pondering my violin- and hypothesizing whether a piece could be altered subtly enough to not alert an audience but rankle them at the same time- I heard footsteps on the stairs. These were not Watson’s footfalls, but those of a heavier man. Someone in a great hurry. Not any Yarder of my acquaintance.  _ A client. _

I rushed to hide the glaring allusions to my lunch and the chicken-scratch sheet music I had been endeavoring to alter. One must keep up appearances. In addition, I find it increases cooperation from a client when they feel as if the room is more like an office. Calling it a ‘consultation room’ was a trifle easier with the jam jars out of sight. 

The knock came just as I had finished stowing the teapot in Watson’s writing desk. “Enter!” I called as I hurried to take my place. The picture that greeted this new client would be of distracted brilliance. As my reputation precedes me, this is generally the effect they come to expect.

The man-  _ six-foot, former rugby player, non-military, spent some time in Australia- _ could not quite hide his surprise as he took in our sitting room. His eyes darted to the various curios (mostly mine) and less than organized papers (mostly Watson’s) before spending a great deal of time staring at  _ me _ . 

“Forgive me… I thought this was the residence of Doctor Watson.”

One of my eyebrows rose. Usually, patients sought him out at his practice. The fact that this gentleman here was in our sitting rooms told me there was more to the story than illness or malady. That, and something about this character-  _ not to mention the loose buttons on his jacket _ \- rung false.

“Indeed. We are both lodgers here. Though if you have an ailment of some kind I suggest you leave and go to his practice in Kensington.” Watson would be home any minute, and I did not wish him to meet with this dishonest man. Not before  _ I _ had the opportunity to learn more. 

“Ah. I see. No, I expected him to be here. Will he arrive soon?” 

I feigned disinterest. The man was clearly nervous and this encounter had not gone as planned. “Oh, I doubt it. He was out much later than this last night and is rather unpredictable in his rounds. If you’d like, you can leave a message with me.” I finished in a distracted manner. “If he’s home at a reasonable hour, of course.”

Not a bald-faced lie, in contrast to the one he then told me. Hopefully, I could learn more about him without arousing suspicion. 

“Dear me.” The man shifted back and forth, scanning the walls for some clue. “If he returns , do tell him of my plight. My name is Clay Carter, and it is not myself i am here for, you understand. My sister has a weak heart, and I believe she has taken a turn for the worse.”

_ Clay Carter!  _ “Oh how dreadful!” The lie, that is. I doubted sincerely if he had a sister at all. And the fact that this man, who had lunch with the late William Remming only two evenings past- was suddenly complaining of a relative with the same malady? Preposterous! That, and the state of his hair told me no woman lived anywhere near him. Or would, I expect. “You really should try his practice, or another in the area. I’m sure there’s a doctor somewhere who can see to your sister. I wish you luck.”

He frowned. My disaffected air had done the trick, and soon I could follow him. No doubt he would try at Watson’s practice, but where he went next was of far more interest to me. He mumbled his ‘good day’s and left. I waited until he reached the second landing before launching my preparations. I donned the simple disguise of an elderly gentleman and followed him with all haste. 

On the street, he hailed a cab to Watson’s practice. I found myself grateful that he did not wish to make the journey on foot, for it is much easier to spot a pursuer from the ground. I kept an eye out for his cab and disembarked a ways before the address to observe his movements. A newspaper, meanwhile, would give my loitering a little more credibility. 

Carter strode purposefully up the steps to Watson’s practice. The good Doctor was not in. My commendable, predictable Watson was likely safe and sound at Baker Street, wondering where I had gone off to. He could stand to wait an hour or two while I satisfied my curiosity on his faux client. 

After a few minutes of loitering, I suspect he realized that he would not be meeting Watson after all. With some show of irritation, he stomped off down the street. I followed. The reader should know that I am not an amatuer when it comes to tailing someone. I have made it a priority to learn how to blend in with a crowd and look like I belong in whatever guise I am deploying. 

In this way I tracked him for several blocks. He never once looked over his shoulder or showed any signs of having a care in the world. I was quite surprised when he suddenly split down an alleyway. In a quite careless move, I hurried after him. I knew the alley opened to a quiet, winding street on the other side, but I was not eager to lose him so early in my pursuit. To my utter amazement, I found the alley empty. It seemed in the time it had taken me to arrive, my quarry had made a mad dash for the other end. I had not predicted him capable of such speed!

No, I sincerely doubted he was. I realized what had happened, but not quickly enough. I barely had time to turn before the swinging weight came down on my head and all went dark.

While I have many times lost pursuers on the streets of London, it has seldom occurred to me to let them be. Why lose them when one can control what they see? The advantages of seeding misinformation were potentially enormous. So they were for the man who had led me merrily along. If the reader is familiar with my Watson’s tales, they may recall a time or two where I perhaps misjudged a suspect’s intelligence. A little. But on a more optimistic note, when my quarry is brighter than I anticipate it does make for a more complicated case. Quite a nice diversion, had it not been for that one little error on my part.

I came back to consciousness somewhere cold. Often times in popular fiction- in stories far less factual than Watson’s- the hero coming around is immediately assaulted by strong smells which give him clues before he can open his eyes. In my experience, it is the sound that registers first. If one is not a mouth-breather, one grows used to scents absorbed by the unconscious mind. But unfamiliar sounds are quite different. A ‘bump in the night’ immediately alerts one to an intrusion and brings wakefulness. 

The sounds my mind identified as I regained consciousness were as follows: the light crackling of wood aflame, the glide of a knife on wood, and drops of water on glass. Other white noise filtered through, but these were less important than the other three. 

The next sense to come alive  _ was _ smell-  _ beeswax, smoke, and damp _ \- but after that came sensation. Here was quite more data than I knew what to do with in a single moment. Little feeling in my legs, shoulders pulled back, a certain chill about the arms, heaviness about the hands, and stickiness along my hairline. Plenty of data, though the picture wasn’t clear yet.  But, the longer I was awake, the more brain power I had to draw from.

I began the real analysis with my hands, as the solutions to the other puzzles came quickly: I was seated on a hard floor and bound in an unusual manner. There was something constricting each wrist and hand too soft for rope and too uniform to be a ribbon of any kind. A layer up from my skin was what I suspected to be any variety of metal manacles, though the type was impossible to determine at this juncture. The strangest part by far was the texture of the first fabric layer. Similar to treated sailcloth, but not the same. I could feel the coating scraping off of whatever cocooned my hands. 

Unfortunately, my observations were cut short. 

“You’re awake then. Don’t act surprised, your breathin’ changed.” 

_ Drat _ . It was Clay Carter, the man who had come looking for Watson I had no doubt. Since feigning unconsciousness would get me nowhere, I drew myself up to my full sitting height. The man who visited our sitting rooms was seated before me at a card table, whittling away at a sliver of wood and tossing the pieces into a small furnace. The light patter of rain, I found as I looked up, could be heard on a dusty skylight above. I had the scents and sounds put to rights, save one. Then it hit me.

“ _ Socks and beeswax?” _ He was as shocked as I at the sudden outburst. But then, I had never heard of such a thing being done. It was fiendishly clever, for one could hardly hold a lockpick with heavy wool socks encasing their fingers, and the beeswax was simply accelerant on an already roaring flame. I could find my way out, of course, but it would take some time.  _ Fiendish indeed. _

The man seemed startled at my deduction. “Yes. Never hurts to have a failsafe.” I was giving him a second glance to see what I had obviously missed during his first visit. He was examining me as well. Apparently, we had both done some underestimating, if his ‘failsafes’ and the distance he had put between us held any account.

“Are you some kind of actor, then? Dabble in burglary?” He held up my sleeve of lockpicks without a hint of irony in his expression. I doubted in that moment if he had any clue as to my identity, merely some man he had met in search of Watson. The man who had quite botched following him undetected. He  _ was _ cleverer than he looked. The fellow had taken my jacket, waistcoat, and disguise, depriving me of every lockpick and utensil I possessed save for the pin secreted away in the heel of my shoe. It was little good to me at present. 

“Burglary…” I began carefully. “Is more of a hobby.” He had no higher ground after attacking me in the street, so I assumed the conversation was safely ‘one criminal to another’. By the looks of the dank stone room, I doubted anyone else would have the chance to overhear. 

“Foolish of you to try it with me, lad.” He leaned back in his chair and twirled the knife in his fingers. “Thought it’s saved me the effort of finding Watson.” I started at the proclamation but he waved the reaction aside. “It’s him I’m after, not you. Go about as you please after tonight. I daresay your  _ hobby _ will be under less scrutiny without the old stick-in-the-mud.”

Carter confirmed one of my darker suspicions.The fact that he had, I imagine, caused William Remming’s death made him more dangerous. And now he had declared he was after Watson. No, despite what he said this did not bode well for either of us. 

“Well,” I began, “How am I of any use to you now? If it’s Watson you’re trying to find, I mean.” Hopefully voicing a question I feared I knew the answer to would help further my deception. The less valuable to Watson he suspected I was, the better.

Carter snorted. “Isn’t it obvious? You are Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?”

Had I not a plan, I daresay his response might have induced a perfectly reasonable panic. I barked out a laugh. “Holmes? You’re not serious.” If an actor he suspected, an actor I should be. “He’s a myth! Watson made him up to sell to the publishers. Talked me into making appearances and sitting for those wholly unflattering illustrations in the  _ Strand. _ Good head for stories, though; makes a nice read on a slow day.”

There was a hint of doubt in Carter’s expression. While Watson’s stories sold well, there was still a great deal of the population that believed me fictional. Hopefully Carter knew little of Watson’s exploits in reality. It would explain why he had come to Baker Street and not Watson’s practice. If he only knew of Watson’s whereabouts from popular fiction, I could play this to my advantage. 

“If you’re not Holmes, then who are you?” Carter was not giving in so easily.

I struggled to come up with a more ridiculous name than ‘Clay Carter’. “Ralph Sigerson.”

We stared at each other a long moment. It seemed to be a battle of lies. Mine overt, and his by omission. So rarely did I have to engage a criminal in a direct battle of words, but he was not giving me very much to work with. I could deduce his recent return to England based on the cut of his suit, the touch of an Australian accent fading with reimmersion in his home country, and the fact that he was rather tan for the approaching winter. He meant Watson some harm, however. His motive and means were still avoiding me. Obviously, he intended to draw the Doctor out with his heart-failure scheme, but to what end?

“Say,” I interrupted  before he had a chance to try and refute my name and claim, “What  _ do _ you want with old Watson, anyhow? And what the blazes do you need me for?”

Carter eyed me a moment before relaxing back in his chair. I do not know if he had determined I was dangerous, but I needed him to let his guard down. Perhaps if he left the room, I could find a way out of his clever handcuff trap. My fingers were cold and slick from the chill and beeswax coating, but maybe given the chance-

“Revenge, I hope.” He spoke suddenly, but in the same relaxed manner he had deployed so far. “Got me thrown out of university, disgraced my good name, and tried to frame me for murder.”

I blinked. That was an impressive list of grievances, but I doubted that it was my Watson who had-

“I did the murder of course, but how he knew and pinned it on me I’ll never guess.”

_ Ah. _ Well, Good old Watson, at any rate. I refrained from commentary at this point, because I believed he was sure to tell me everything I wanted to hear. He had the relaxed air of the oh-so-typical fictional villian assured in his success. It took a considerable effort not to roll my eyes. If he had simply stuck to the facts, I doubt I would have harbored such a dislike for the information being laid out right in front of me. But, as they say, beggars cannot be choosers. 

Carter continued. “I poisoned a senior professor for threatening to fail me on account of academic dishonesty. Cheating! True as it was, I would not be called a cheat and disgraced. A slow-enough acting poison did the trick. A week later I was expelled with the testimony of John Watson among other reputable students as a contributing factor.” 

“But you are so much older than Watson.” Not significantly, but I could not resist a good dig to goad him into further confession. “How could you have been schoolmates?”

Carter bristled. I admit I was fairly satisfied with the reaction at the time. 

“That hardly matters.” He said. “The point is, between the events I have set in motion and the telegram I sent, I will have Watson here before the night is up. I shall be surprised if he hasn’t put everything together. After all, I used the same method to kill our old classmate Remming, Mr. Holmes.”

While I had been able to deduce the method of the murder fairly early on in the monologue, my spirits sank at his proclamation.  _ Drat again _ , I thought. Carter was astute enough to get away with murder, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that he had known my identity. 

“Oh come now.” Said he, “An actor doesn’t follow a stranger for miles over a matter with his flatmate. And a mere  _ flatmate _ would hardly go through so much trouble interviewing witnesses and investigating the scene of the crime. Ralph Sigerson indeed!” 

Oh dear. He had followed me from Mattermann’s at the very latest, and perhaps had seen me visit the Remmings. If he was after Watson with as much zeal as he implied, then it stood to reason that he would observe these places. Carter had not left many clues. But he was also impatient, judging by the staged encounter at our flat. I had severely underestimated the depth of Carter’s cunning. 

Another thought struck me shortly thereafter. Given the knowledge that Carter was a killer- _though_ _one could also infer Remming was among the ‘reputable’ students who defamed him and was not a random killing-_ and the fact that he had admitted this as well as his aim to kill again… To a man he knew a formidable detective as well… I had the realization- that one should have as few times in their life as possible- that if the man before me had his way I would be dead before sunrise. And Watson along with me. 

This is why I chose to pen this case: as a cautionary tale. It is not a singular case in that it revolves around some great deduction on my part (let Watson laud my efforts to combat the uncommon criminal if he must). I find it rather more fascinating as a case where, despite all odds, sheer dumb luck had all but won the day for our criminal in question. The reader should take note, as I did at the time: never underestimate the power of chance. 

In that dark room, I recalled something Watson had said once in passing. I often made meticulous plans, and a great many came to fruition exactly as I expected. But there was one summer night, as I expressed my confidence in the trap we had laid for our quarry, when I believe he had finally had enough. 

_ “Holmes, _ ” said he, “ _ No battle plan ever survives first contact with the enemy.” _

How right he had been. While I was often very comfortable in my knowledge of criminal psychology I suppose that, statistically speaking, one can never really know what a man is thinking. Watson had accused me before of reading his mind. Perhaps I should have tried harder reading Carter’s.

At this point I arrived at the answer to my very last riddle. The stickiness at my hairline. Indeed, I had been hit very hard upon the head. Quite the revelation. 

It did explain how slow I had been to draw certain conclusions as well as why I ever supposed the ‘Ralph Sigerson’ gambit would work. Still, the fact that I was now aware of my condition counted for something. Between the cold and the mortal danger, I was much more cognisant of the situation than I had been previously. Carter had the privilege, as Watson would say, of watching deductive reasoning done properly. 

“You sent a telegram to Watson? I sincerely doubt he will come if the two of you are as acquainted as you say. He is not the sort to converse with murderers.”

Carter continued whittling, nearly rolling his eyes. “I take it, Mr. Holmes, that you have never been bait before.” 

Ah. Yes, that would be a very compelling telegram, knowing Watson. If he would drop everything for the sake of a stranger, what would he do for a closer acquaintance? There was at least some truth to Carter’s statement. He did know Watson well enough. Carter was lucky I had given this case consideration, else I doubt he could have compelled Watson here without my aid and that of the police. Perhaps my reticence to consider luck as an important factor would change. 

In the meantime, I would have to hope for some of my own. There was still the problem of the beeswax socks. Plus, I doubted Carter would leave me to my own devices now. Whatever fate he had planned-

That was something I could leverage. Carter had not known John Watson at any point since their schooling. He knew very little of what sharing a flat with a detective could teach a man. 

I tried a new tack. “Well, if you’re going to kill him, I should like to know how. If you weren’t aware, smarter men have attempted it before and failed.”

Carter became agitated. He was clearly a man of pride and would take no insult lightly. My sham as Sigerson had done me a favor after all. 

“The telegram instructed him to arrive by the front door, unarmed, and without informing the police. If he deviates from the directions, he believes my men guarding the house will have you killed.”

“But you don’t have men guarding the building.”

“No.” At this Carter gave a tight smile. “But he thinks I do. And I am sure he will follow the instructions to the letter.”

The rain stopped suddenly, leaving me and this altogether too lucky murderer in silence. He clearly hadn’t thought of everything, but he had planned for quite a bit. I had very little doubt that my honest, dependable Watson would knock on the front door at the appointed time. He would not call the police, or bring his revolver, which would put him ill at ease. He would not-

He would not, I had assumed, throw open the room’s only door with his revolver already out and trained on Carter. 

“Your criminal escapades are over, Clay.” He said. “And I believe your luck has just run out.”

Were this an act in a play, I am sure the audience would be applauding. However it was silent as a graveyard in the room. Both Carter and I were struck dumb. Watson? Barging through the door with a pistol in hand and hardly a care in the world? 

The more I thought about it, the less clear the whole affair became. Doubly so, when he stepped aside for a pair of Constables. They quickly apprehended an astounded Carter. That left Watson to untie me so I could finally pick my jaw up off of the floor. 

I did not react to his initial expression of concern, but upon hearing the muttered ‘ _ Beeswax, really?’ _ my startled brain came back to life. 

“Watson! The telegram- How did you know?”

He ignored this for the moment to locate the key to the cuffs (carelessly tossed on the table, where I might have found them had Carter left me alone) before returning. 

“Simplicity itself, Holmes.” He said with some amusement. Despite not being able to see his face, my eyes narrowed. I did not approve of his tone. “Carter is an idiot.”

While accurate, I could not see how this had enlightened any of his actions. But Watson continued. “He was notorious for being pig-headed, standoffish, a loner, and entirely dishonest the entire time he was at school. I have no reason to believe anything he said, save the possibility he might have you here. No one would work with him, and should he have visited I imagine you would take an immediate dislike to him. I found it unlikely that he had succeeded, but you weren’t at home, and the teapot was stashed in my desk...”

Watson was, very tactfully, saying he doubted I would fall for this buffoon’s trap. 

“He clubbed me with his walking stick. Not at all cricket.” I said, shaking the socks off my hands now that they were free. Now it was my turn to make some implications. I looked over to scowl properly at Watson. “And furthermore, I am surprised you took such a chance with a murderer twice over. Though I suppose he truly is an imbecile if he didn’t so much as lock the door.”

“No, he did, Holmes.” Watson said, fishing a small lock picking kit from his jacket. “But a murderer twice over? Who on earth has he killed?”

The stupefaction on my face must have been somewhat exaggerated, for Watson immediately regarded me with more concern. “He did hit you rather hard, didn’t he?”

“Who-! Watson, he identified you as the reason he was suspected- and expelled- over some cheating scandal and the death of a professor! He said you would recognize his  _ modus operandi _ in William Remming’s death!”

Watson’s face darkened. “He killed Bill Remming? And… Professor Krausse?”

Were I to pick a romantic term to label my state of mind, I find ‘flabbergasted’ to fit the bill very well. “Of course he- Watson, what on earth did you say to get him thrown out if it wasn’t suspicion of murder?”

Only now did he look sheepish. “We all thought the Professor died of a heart attack. And Holmes, I only gave my honest opinion. Thinking back on it, I suppose he would be rather proud of getting away with murder. I simply told the inquiry board I had no doubt he was a cheat. Carter was always disreputable. You would think better of a mature student.” 

I nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all. Carter had gotten away with murder, stayed completely undetected, and come out of hiding after all this time to get revenge on a man who wasn’t even aware that a crime had been committed? And all this only to be foiled by the very same, apparently clueless witness?

If it hadn’t been for my involvement, I daresay he would have had a much better time of it.

I was not hiding my petty satisfaction well enough. Watson once again looked alarmed. “Holmes, we really should get that wound seen to. And here you are without a coat as well!”

I rolled my eyes as he helped me up. Though I did not need the support, my legs were quite without feeling and I did not wish to fall over should any more of Scotland Yard’s finest come by with inquiries. “That was hardly my doing. Your Clay Carter has some interesting ideas about how to acquire an audience.”

Watson scoffed something like ‘ _ My Clay Carter indeed!’ _ while I gathered my stolen belongings from the table. We had caught a killer and prevented his third and fourth murders. Indeed, this could have been a very different case had I not decided to intervene on Watson’s behalf. At the time, I believe I was quite proud of the fact. 

“All in a day’s work, eh Watson?” I shrugged on my coat and stood tall, adamantly ignoring the black spots swimming in my vision. No, it wouldn’t do to alarm anyone. Scotland Yard ought to write it off as a success and we could all sleep easier now that a murderer was off the streets. 

Watson, however, shared none of my enthusiasm. “Holmes, we really should get you back to Baker Street. Carter was hardly a star cricket player but I doubt he did you any favors with that lump on your head.” 

I sighed. “If you insist.” Far be it from me to tary at a crime scene after the denouement. How we actually made it back to Baker Street remains a mystery since I had contracted, in Watson’s words, ‘a whopping great concussion’. It was a good thing Lestrade did not show up to the raid as he would have taken advantage of the fact that my brains were well and thoroughly scrambled. 

I reiterate for the reader that this is a cautionary tale. Pride will not get in the way of my laying down the facts and events as they occurred. No detective, no matter how seasoned, should underestimate his enemy. He may find himself with ample material for a monograph on restraining tricks that would leave escape artists at a loss. Beeswax indeed…

Thus the Clay Carter case was concluded. In the interest of facts, I refuse to provide a false ending or some melodramatic conclusion. There was an inquest at which I, Watson, and the Remmings all testified. Carter was later convicted of both murders and a kidnapping, all for which he was sentenced to hang. 

Had it come from a client, I should say that this case should hold almost no interest to me whatsoever. The method was tired, the motive unoriginal, and the criminal as bumbling as Watson’s estimation of him. Clay Carter was unique in that I suspect he is the luckiest criminal to ever walk the face of the earth. The sheer impossibility of him succeeding so far with his combination of absurd ideas and misplaced confidence in his wits was staggering. And yet he with his pride, poisons, and thrice-cursed beeswax socks managed to nearly kill the world’s only consulting detective. No man is infallible, and the minute he believes himself so, he is doomed. 

* * *

Author’s notes: For an analysis on confidence as an asset in a criminal’s toolbox, please see my monograph titled:  _ ‘Bravado And The Illusion Of Invincibility As An Aid In Criminal Activity’. _ Those interested in a consultation should make an appointment or send inquiries to 221B Baker Street, cases taken on a highly selective basis. For those seeking to alleviate concussion symptoms, listen to no wives tales. Consult a doctor at once. 

Editor’s note: I sincerely wish he had let me submit this under ‘Humor’ but he finds nothing funny about his so-called cautionary tale. And my thanks to you, dear reader, as I was in the party betting  _ for _ his success. Your continued amusement has bought me dinner and I shall be forever grateful. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm here today to do what I do best: ruin perfectly good literature with comedy
> 
> Thanks for reading


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